The visions of the golden army and the scent of burning sky faded, replaced by the copper tang of monster blood and the cold, damp air of the dungeon's first floor.
Nellas remained on his knees, his breath coming in ragged hitches. The memory of the blond leader snapping his neck felt so real that he instinctively reached up to touch his throat, half-expecting to feel broken bone.
"That..." Nellas croaked, his voice thick with leftover grief. "That was..."
"That was what happened in one of your past lives," the mysterious voice resonated, though it sounded much fainter now, like a candle flickering in a gale. "The cycle of your souls is a tragedy written in blood. I was only able to make you both remember one... it was all the strength I had left."
Nellas looked down at Ember's pale, unconscious face. Tears were still drying on her cheeks—tears shed in the dream for a version of him that had died centuries ago.
